Nor Are We Out Of It
by incandescens
Summary: Demons, darkness, murder, violence, and the coming of shadows. A story set shortly after the King of Swords arc, now complete. (Oh, and Muraki quotes Marlowe's _Faust_, for the curious.)
1. Prologue

Nor Are We Out Of It -- Prologue 

Tatsumi sighed, and inspected the remaining piles of paperwork which cluttered the smooth surface of his desk. There was too much of it -- and for once, it was probably not Tsuzuki's fault. Not entirely. Not if you were prepared to argue the point (and this once, he felt like arguing the point). It wasn't as if one could blame Tsuzuki -- or even Hisoka -- for a psychotic serial killer blowing up the Queen Camellia and necessitating salvage operations. Higher authorities had notified him that his department would have to take some of the expenses for that, but he intended to fight that judgment tooth and claw. Trying to keep _some_ money in the department treasury was one of the few things he could actually do for the others. 

It wasn't as if he'd been able to protect them from Muraki, after all. Or save the boy from that girl's death. Or do anything that had actually been useful, except perhaps turn up too late with too little. 

Sometimes he regretted abandoning his position as Tsuzuki's partner. 

He rubbed the underside of his right forearm. It was aching again. He'd taken a long gash there during the fight after that episode with the demon and the violin and the boy with the transplanted cornea, when they were trying to get Tsuzuki out of the way, and from time to time the wound ached as if it were still fresh . . . 

He had work to do. There was far too much of it. Perhaps if he got down to it now he might be able to clear enough of it to go home with a clear conscience. 

Yes, and that reminded him, Watari had been making noises about everyone needing a department medical check, as part of the standard procedure. He ought to set an example by dropping by, though of course he wouldn't agree to let Watari try out any of his dubious experiments on him . . . 

But the work had to be done first. The work demanded his full concentration. He might even be able to shave some of the costs a little if he truly applied himself to this set of figures, and that was the important thing. Minor points of health or heartache or an ache in his arm which should have healed the way all shinigami injuries healed . . . 

**WORK**

Yes, work was the most important thing. 

He had so much to do. There was so little time, so little money, so much to organize. In the pleasant light trance of focused concentration and application he could forget for a little while about the pain in Tsuzuki's eyes, the flinch and shiver in his movements, the way he used to cry. 

He could forget it all. 

Tatsumi picked up a mug of coffee which had gone cold a long time ago, and took a sip of the dark liquid. It burned harshly in his mouth, and he welcomed the focus which the taste brought him. 

This was where he belonged, not fretting over a partner who was now with someone whom he cared about, someone whom he fitted with much better than Tatsumi could ever have managed. This office was his home, his temple, his dojo. He needed nothing else. He was safe here. He need not think about anything else. 

He began to work again. 

He wanted nothing else. 

Later, when he looked up from the papers and smiled, shadows writhed behind his glasses and ran down to pool between his fingers. He continued to smile. 

---

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	2. Chapter One

Chapter One 

There were sounds in the darkness outside, sounds other than the ever-present bubbling of test-tubes in Watari's lab, or the soft whisper of night winds in the perpetual cherry blossom of Meifu. 

003 hooted thoughtfully, perched on his master's shoulder, wings ready to backfan and propel him to safety at a moment's notice if Watari should decide that the current experiment's results mandated an outburst of joy or despair. He was accustomed to the sudden wild bouncings of success, the droop and sway of failure, and the tossing masses of hair which generally went with perplexity. It was, the little owl considered, a natural hazard of the laboratory. 

On earth, night lay like a silk sheet over half the world. An amethyst-eyed shinigami dreamed of chocolate cakes. A thin emerald-eyed boy looked at his hands and considered washing them again, just to be sure that all the blood was gone. A girl's body, long since left behind by any spirit which had once inhabited the flesh, lay in a metal coffin that had been a proud ship, and shifted gently in the deep slow currents of the sea. 

Watari thought that he heard a footstep outside the door. 

It seemed a scientifically unlikely event. At this time of night, his most frequent visitors - such as Tsuzuki - would be at home and fast asleep, curled up snugly in their beds. Ah, but the patient scientist, the alchemist, the miracle worker such as himself didn't bother about sleep! He slaved night after night, seeking the deepest secrets of the universe! Such as a reliable sex-change potion. For a start. Enlightenment could not remain hidden long from his probing researches. Assuming that he could wheedle another research grant out of Tatsumi, that was. 

Watari considered seizing the moment and bursting in on Tatsumi to demand more money. After all, success couldn't be far off at this rate. He'd had two reactions already tonight which had worked rather than failing dismally. Possibly - his eyes glazed over - he'd even be able to test them tomorrow. He began to ponder what chocolates might best serve to disguise the concoctions while administering them to Tsuzuki. He leaned forward till he was practically nose to nose with an alembic of bubbling green fluid, estimating the rate of evaporation. 

There was a creak as the door opened behind him. 003 rose from his shoulder, winging to greet the visitor with a soft hoot. 

"Who . . ." he started to say. 

Watari had once been to a baseball game. He had found the whole experience marvellously energizing, and full of charm and fun, although Tatsumi, sitting next to him, had developed a serious headache, for no particularly obvious reason. (The tickets had been won in a free raffle by Tsuzuki, confiscated by Tatsumi to repay a few outstanding debts, and used as an office trip. The best sort of holiday, Tatsumi pointed out several times, as it was totally free.) He remembered the sound of bat on ball, the firm authority of the crack of wood against leather, the thorough solidity of the noise. 

The sound he heard was a little like that. 

003 went flying across the room in a blur of feathers, too fast to even spin lazily in the air as a normal thrown ball would, and hit the wall with a firm splat. The tiny owl fell to the floor, and did not move. 

Watari was already turning, crying out in outrage, when a hand caught him squarely on the back of the neck, throwing him forward onto the laboratory table. Testtubes splintered and jars of chemicals went flying. He sagged down to his knees, unable to keep his balance or stay upright, trying to regain focus, stand up, defend himself, do _something_. He hadn't been involved in brawls for years now. His field was research. A piece of broken glass had slashed his forehead, and it was bleeding freely; he tried to raise one hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes, but his body didn't seem to want to coordinate itself properly. 

A hand grabbed his right shoulder, pulling him upright, and he almost muttered something stupid in thanks. However, instinct and common sense took over, and he tried to swivel round, to push the man away (it was a man's hand, his senses reported, too large on his shoulder to be a woman's hand) and to see who it was. 

It was so quiet, except for the noise of fizzing chemicals and the hiss of a bunsen burner. The whole room seemed to be muffled in silence. His own breathing was hoarse, rough, too loud. The other man's was controlled, barely audible. 

The hand pulled him up and backwards, dragging him against the man's chest. The other arm came around to pin his arms against his body, hold him there struggling weakly. (He shouldn't be thinking in terms of separate arms and hands like this, but he couldn't see the man, couldn't turn his head to see him, jammed as it was against the man's shoulder, couldn't shake the mass of bloodied golden hair out of his eyes, couldn't even seem to focus clearly in a laboratory that seemed to be getting darker by the second.) 

Watari did manage to cry out when the intruder's right hand moved up to his throat, a slow gliding passage of fingers from the shoulder and onto the neck, pausing for a moment to stroke the hollow at the base of the throat before fastening firmly and beginning to squeeze. He kicked backwards and struggled, but the man holding him was taller than he was, and he still couldn't seem to coordinate his body properly. 

He couldn't breathe. 

He was sure that the intruder was laughing. 

He was a scientist, he knew all the proper terms for the process of suffocation. It wasn't helping. 

He couldn't breathe. 

Could even a shinigami survive this, some part of his mind queried. The world was dissolving into gold streaks of matted hair in front of his eyes and reddish haze. He was conscious of the other man's firm body behind him, could even feel the lines of the suit and the buttons of the jacket that he was being held against, and as his vision slowly faded into nothing but darkness, touch and sound was the last thing that remained; the ragged edges of his own gasping, the warm hand on his throat. 

He couldn't breathe. 

The intruder held Watari for a few moments after the struggling stopped, then dropped the body to the ground. It landed limply, as boneless as the tattered owl, and lay there, the mass of curling hair covering the shinigami's face as if in some vestige of modesty. 

Briskly, as though working to a schedule, he threw the lab computer from the desk where it rested, and then picked up the bottle labelled **SULPHURIC ACID, DO NOT TOUCH, AND DO NOT DRINK - THIS MEANS YOU, TSUZUKI** and poured it into the casing until the bottle was empty. Shelves were smashed and books were ripped apart. One in particular was destroyed with particular care, crumpled and torn into shreds. 

On the ground, Watari twitched slightly. His hair fluttered near his mouth, then fell back as his first desperate gasp gave way to a more regular unconscious breathing. The brief noise was lost in the more general destruction. 

The intruder turned, and walked across to where the body lay on the floor. He prodded it idly with the toe of one well-polished shoe. Watari rolled over bonelessly, tangled hair still covering most of his face. He looked as dead as anyone could reasonably expect. 

The intruder smiled pleasantly, and swept Watari's lab desk free of bottles and experiments, cascading them over the body at his feet. With a casual, satisfied step he left the room, turning out the lights behind him, and closed the door. 

He laid a red rose on the threshold on the other side. 

Just so they'd know. 

Now he could really start enjoying himself. 

---

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	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

Tsuzuki Asato was fairly sure that this had happened before. 

The feeling of a hard wall against his back as he backed away from the advancing Muraki was painfully familiar. The sight of his scattered hand of cards, that pitiful heart flush strewn across the deserted card table, the glint in the visible eye of the man approaching him. He knew it was downright pitiful of him to be retreating like this, trying to find a place to hide, but he couldn't help it - not then, not now. 

"This night and forever you are mine," Muraki murmured into his ear, having drifted forward in a sudden burst of motion which ended up with him pinning Tsuzuki against the wall, hands firm and warm on the shinigami's wrists. His lips slowly began to move over Tsuzuki's neck, millimeter by agonising millimeter, tracing a hot path up towards the other man's ear. "Tonight," he purred, "you will blossom beneath me." 

The problem was that it felt so good. He could let go. Muraki wouldn't ask him to be anything other than himself. He didn't have to worry about anything or make any decisions. He just had to let go and let the dollmaster pick him up and hold him close and kiss him till he screamed. 

He closed his eyes. 

"Tonight," whispered Muraki, a demonic smile to his voice, "I marry you." 

That broke the mood. Tsuzuki opened his eyes with a shriek to find a giant wedding cake pinning him against the wall, tentacles of white icing rising to clasp him to it. But this he could handle! This he could deal with! He seized a knife and fork from the nearby table and mercilessly assaulted the cake, scooping huge gobs of sponge and icing into his mouth. He had it on the defensive now! He threw himself on it, pinning it to the floor, and took a massive bite . . . 

He was kissing Muraki, a deep kiss, open mouth against open mouth, and the other man was holding him firmly, arms wrapped tightly around him, crushing the life out of him. Wedding drums were beating in the distance. No, wait, that was someone banging on his door. 

And he had a mouthful of pillowcase. 

Spluttering and shaking, Tsuzuki hauled himself out of his untidy tangle of blankets, pulled on trousers while hopping on one leg, ran a hand hopelessly through his hair, and answered the door, pulling it open mid-bang. He consoled himself with the thought that whoever it was, it probably wasn't Muraki, who certainly wouldn't do anything as impolite as hammer on someone's door at an unreasonable hour in the morning. 

Hisoka nearly tumbled into the room as Tsuzuki opened the door, but caught himself mid-hammer. "Tsuzuki! Are you all right?" There was an unusual agitation to his eyes, and for once he wasn't affecting a casual, icy demeanour. 

Tsuzuki blinked at him, one hand going to scratch the back of his head in perplexity. "Well, of course I am. Why shouldn't I be?" 

"It's Muraki," Hisoka spat out. "He broke into Meifu, attacked Watari. I was afraid . . ." He broke off sharply. "And here you are, half asleep baka, tearing your pillow to shreds and sleeping off too much food the night before." 

Tsuzuki didn't even spare a glance at his mangled pillow, which had apparently been used as a combined teddybear and masticator during the night. He grabbed for jacket, tie, and trenchcoat, managing to sling them on in approximately the right order. "But why would Muraki go after Watari? They haven't even met! And is Watari all right? Did Muraki get caught?" 

Hisoka, relieved of immediate concern for his partner, was slouching again, staring mournfully at the damp-spotted mirror which dangled askew in a corner of the apartment. "Watari's hurt - and there's another problem - but he'll live. So will 003. But the lab's a mess. We don't know why Muraki went after him." He shrugged. "But who else would have done something like that and then left a red rose behind him?" 

Tsuzuki blushed and sprouted puppy-ears for a moment. "Well . . . eh heh heh . . . let's get going! I want to see how Watari's doing!" 

---

The hospital room in Meifu was crowded, but it wasn't that that made Tsuzuki come to an abrupt halt in the doorway as he saw Watari lying in the bed. The purple-eyed shinigami stiffened, then pointed an accusing finger at the blonde scientist's body. "You've got _breasts_!" 

"Do you _mind_?" Watari protested weakly and hoarsely, an octave higher than usual. 

Behind him, Hisoka covered his face with one hand. "Trust the baka to notice the really important details . . ." 

"Apparently Muraki tipped most of Watari's experiments over him - excuse me, her - before leaving," explained Tatsumi, looking up from where he was sitting in the corner. A laptop was humming on his knees, and several piles of invoices were precisely stacked next to his chair. "It would appear that there was some sort of miscibility reaction. I'm sure Watari will be glad to investigate, once she's out of bed." 

"Poor Watari!" declared Wakaba, appearing in the door with a plateful of cake already cut into slices. Tsuzuki unselfishly took the plate off her and appropriated a few slices before passing it on. "How horrible! I wish that evil Muraki had tried to attack me! I'd have shown him a few things!" 

There was a brief but appalled silence and mutual multiple sweatdrop, during which none of the men (or even the temporarily female Watari) could force themselves to comment on the mental images this brought up. Tatsumi broke the silence with a painful-sounding cough. "And, ah, how are you feeling now, Watari?" 

The blonde scientist was clearly sulking. Her face had scarcely changed at all, except for a slight softening of the chin, but her body's new outline was visible under the sheets of her hospital bed. "How am I supposed to check out what caused this now? The uncultured clod! The viper! My poor laboratory!" She broke off to take a gulp of water. "I am not happy, not happy at all. How's 003 doing?" 

"He's doing fine," Wakaba reassured him. "We've put him in splints and Terazuma's promised to feed him grapes." 

There was an ominous flash of glasses from Tatsumi's direction. "How are you doing _physically_, Watari, I meant." 

"Oh!" Watari sighed, and leaned back into her pillows. "Well, unless you feel like increasing the size of my grant to compensate for work-related injuries - okay, okay, it wasn't very likely, you can turn down the scary red aura now, Tatsumi - then I think I may need another couple of days in bed. I . . ." She hesitated. "I don't feel very well." 

Tsuzuki stared at Watari. This was the first time he'd ever seen the scientist less than genki and bouncy. There was a slight twitch to the other shinigami's hands, and a certain flinch to the eyes, that he remembered from Hisoka's early days. Or from seeing himself in the mirror on a couple of occasions after close encounters with Muraki. _Let me be the only one to see you broken . . ._ "It's all right, Watari," he said impulsively. "He won't get in here. We'll keep watch." 

Watari bit her lip. "Couldn't he at least have left a list of which ones he spilled on me?" she asked plaintively. 

"So what are we going to do about this?" Hisoka folded his arms, assuming an air of severe practicality. "Tatsumi-san, surely Muraki shouldn't have been able to get into Meifu like that? How do we stop it happening again?" 

Tatsumi sighed. "He shouldn't. Unfortunately, the person who might be able to tell us best how it was done . . ." He nodded to Watari. "Needs to recover his, ah, her health." Plaintively, he added, "You are going to change back, aren't you?" 

Watari shrugged. The pain of speaking on a bruised throat was beginning to show in her voice as she replied, "I don't know. I need to run some tests. But you all seem so surprised! It's as if you thought I'd never succeed anyhow!" 

Tsuzuki was about to say, "Well, yes," when Hisoka kicked his ankle without even looking at him. He yelped in pain instead. 

Watari gave him a grateful look. "I appreciate the sympathy, Tsuzuki-san. I'll be back to normal soon. But I don't seem to be healing as fast as we normally would. It must be that mix of potions again. You'd have thought a fellow scientist would have better manners!" 

Tatsumi rose to his feet, giving everyone in the room the Cold Scary Authority Glare. "If you have all _quite_ finished, these are the instructions from above. We're to stay in pairs until Watari is better and has worked out what's going on, how Muraki got in here, and how to stop him. Tsuzuki-san, Hisoka-kun! You will be staying in here with Watari for the morning! I'll take over in the afternoon. Wakaba-chan! You'll be with Terazuma. We've got a list of possible hideouts that Muraki may be using on Earth that you two can check out together. He's distinctive. Someone may have seen something." 

Tsuzuki's mouth gaped open in awe as he admired the secretary's firm handling of the situation, then snapped abruptly shut as he realized what was missing from the room. "But! Tatsumi-san! There isn't a television in here!" 

"Budget cuts," Tatsumi explained coldly. "Just sit quietly and let Watari-san heal. Either that, or . . ." His spectacles glinted. "You can do your monthly expense reports. Hisoka-kun can help." 

Both shinigami swallowed in unison. Hisoka managed to reply first. "We'll be glad to stay here!" 

"Good." Tatsumi steepled his hands. "Well? Why is everyone still _standing_ here?" 

Within five seconds, the room was empty of all except Hisoka, who was staring moodily out of the window, Watari, who was trying to go to sleep, and Tsuzuki, who had already managed it. 

_I wonder what's really going on,_ thought Hisoka. He rubbed one of the curse marks on his arm thoughtfully. _Why should Muraki attack Watari, of all people? Scientific jealousy? And why make it so obvious that he's able to get in here, when he could have kept it secret and managed to kidnap Tsuzuki and me? What does he want with the baka, anyhow?_

Watari shut her eyes and tried to breathe evenly. It was strange to be concentrating on breathing so much, so aware of the physical sensation. She tried not to think about those long moments of choking, of feeling her life in between someone else's hands and their continuing to press harder on her throat, to kill her . . . 

Tsuzuki made a whimpering noise as Muraki chased him through his dreams. The doctor was smiling, a bouquet of lush red roses in one hand, a small plush doll of Watari in his other hand. "Come here," he whispered, his voice seeming to turn Tsuzuki's bones to water. "Your skin is so soft, Tsuzuki-san . . ." 

---

Fanfic Page 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

The morning had passed quietly. Watari had slept most of the time, shifting between babbling hyperenthusiasm and a quiet, stunned silence during his few waking moments. Tszuki had slept too, dozing the hours away in a calm placidity which almost made Hisoka jealous. Not that he wanted to sleep, not under conditions of such danger, but it would have been pleasant to sleep so quietly, without nightmares. 

After all, Tsuzuki wouldn't be snoring open-mouthed like that if he was having a nightmare, would he? No, the baka was probably just fantasizing about endless apple pies or something similar. 

Tatsumi appeared in the door, finger to his lips, a thick stack of folders tucked under one arm. He looked thoughtfully between the peacefully dozing Tsuzuki and the busily reading Watari, then brought the pile of folders with a slam down on the table where Tzuzuki had propped his weary head, approximately one inch from the sleeping shinigami's nose. Dust flew high in the air. Tsuzuki sat bolt upright and began to babble something about not looking good in white lace, before developing puppy ears and trying to crawl under the table. 

"Tsuzuki-san," murmured Tatsumi, words clipped, glasses flashing coldly, "you appear to be deep in thought." 

"Shouldn't you be in company, Tatsumi-san?" Hisoka asked hastily. Not out of any desire to spare his stupid partner embarrassment, of course. Merely out of curiosity. Having Muraki attack Tatsumi wouldn't do anybody any good at all. He was aware that the secretary had to have some degree of power - all the shinigami did, after all - but he'd never actually found out what it was. 

Tatsumi turned to him. "Thank you for your concern, Hisoka-kun, but I believe matters are under control. For the moment." He paused, as though struck by a thought. "Actually, there is one thing which you could do. Besides," he glared at Tsuzuki, "your expenses." 

"Certainly," Hisoka replied. 

"This won't be easy." Tatsumi hesitated. "Perhaps it might be better not to . . ." 

Hisoka stood up proudly, hands on hips. "If there's anything that I can do, naturally I will do it!" 

Tatsumi nodded, giving the motion due weight. "Very well. You are, to be frank, the person here who knows Muraki best. If you could sit down somewhere in private, and consider what he's done in the past, and try to conjecture what you think he might do next - where he might hide himself - then I would be extremely grateful. It could provide us with useful insight. But given your past experiences with him, it might not be very comfortable for you . . ." 

Hisoka swallowed, and tried to ignore the phantom burning of the curse-marks on his body, and the cold crawling dread in his stomach. He managed to keep his voice level. "Certainly I will do it. And Tsuzuki?" 

"Can do his expenses," Tatsumi replied, with a nod of thanks. 

Tsuzuki muttered a gloomy assent. 

Watari blinked thoughtfully, then blinked again. "Well, if the bouya can't do it, I guess that none of us can . . . oh, while you're out there, could you fetch me a couple of my texts?" He reeled off a list of titles that Hisoka could only hope he was writing down correctly. _Testament of Solomon? I don't remember seeing that one on the chemistry shelves . . ._ He was astonished at the sudden flash of what felt like anger from the Department secretary at the names of some of the books. _That's not like Tatsumi at all. Perhaps he's just worried about the amount of lab damage. Some of these sound like antiques._

Tatsumi adjusted his glasses meaningfully. "A dozen books should really be enough, Watari, even for you. Perhaps Tsuzuki can bring them round later, while Hisoka works on his project?" 

Tsuzuki nodded a more enthusiastic agreement than before, as this would at least mean freedom from the expenses. He then remembered that he still had to do them, sighed, and trailed out after the less-than-enthusiastic Hisoka. It was the sort of walk that should have been accompanied by a full orchestra playing the Death March. 

Tatsumi watched them go, and idly wondered where he'd got that idea about having Hisoka try to predict Muraki's movements. It was a shot in the dark, and it might be a bit risky exposing the boy to that sort of psychological stress, but . . . 

**it's a good idea**

**it'll be efficient**

. . . and efficiency was one of his prime concerns. He spread out his folders of invoices and expenses on the table where Tsuzuki had been napping, and started to check them systematically. 

It was the most reassuring thing he'd done so far that day. 

He could relax. Just a little. 

Watari frowned, staring at her near-illegible set of notes. They might, under other circumstances, have suggested a split personality. One side was a set of chemical formula, linked to a list of all the chemicals which he could remember having stored in the lab by an increasingly chaotic set of lines, to the extent that it looked as if the page had been attacked by a group of demented spiders drunk on brandied ink. 

The other side of the page, in a scribble which only Watari could read, queried, _HOW THE HELL DID THE DEMON MANAGE TO STAY IN TSUZUKI AFTER ALL?_

It wasn't Muraki. She - he - this whole gender business was a bit more confusing than expected -- was sure of that. She'd heard a lot of dubious things about the perverted psychopathic murderous lunatic sexually obsessed sorcerous doctor, and while she could believe that Muraki Kazukata would be capable of a great deal of malice, she didn't think that he did things at random. And there wasn't exactly a large number of other possible candidates for wanton destruction, who could reach down here, and who had a motivation for vengeance. Clearly the earlier exorcism hadn't been as effective as they'd all thought. 

It had been difficult to pretend to sleep with Tsuzuki in the same room, though. 

Covertly, from under her eyelashes, Watari glanced at Tatsumi and considered sharing her theory, then decided against it. Everyone knew how much he cared about Tsuzuki. It'd only worry him if she told him what she suspected without proof to back it up, or suggestions as to what to do about it. 

She sighed, put her notebook to one side, and curled up in the bed, closing her eyes. She was tired. Her metabolism was still affected. It'd probably be days before she stopped needing medical attention and rest. She was perfectly able to read her own hospital records, after all. She might as well get some sleep. Tatsumi would keep an eye on things. 

And as he dropped into the familiar patterns of work, shadows moved and flickered behind Tatsumi's glasses. 

---

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	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

Look, this is JuOhCho . . . 

Watari is fast asleep. The strain of the night before has finally caught up with her, and the stresses on her body are presenting their bills in the form of demands for uninterrupted downtime. Blonde hair lies in smooth waves across the white pillow. She does not snore. 

Tatsumi continues to work through the stack of accounts. From time to time, he glances thoughtfully at the sleeping scientist, and then checks his watch. All the shadows have drained away from the corners of the room to collect around his chair, as though they were pressing close to touch him. 

Hisoka stares at a blank piece of paper. From time to time, he lowers a pen towards it, then draws it back again. It's hard to find words for the sort of violation that is written in every cell of his body. The page is as white as camellia petals. He shudders. 

Tsuzuki is trying to add 2 and 2. Occasionally, he gets 4. Since this produces the sort of expenses that are going to give Tatsumi an epileptic fit, a stroke, and raging homicidal mania combined, he is doing his best to get 3 instead. Besides, this is better than thinking about Muraki. Anything's better than thinking about Muraki. 

. . . and outside, the cherry trees are in flower . . . 

--- 

Tsuzuki finally finished a set of artistic misarithmetic which would have caused Professor Moriarty to invent the Trinomial Theorem. He set down his pen with a virtuous sigh of accomplished work, then glanced across to Hisoka. _Perhaps,_ he considered, _he'd find it easier to think about things without me sitting here._ "I'll take these along to Tatsumi," he said brightly. "Be right back." 

Hisoka nodded vaguely, lost in recollections of a poker game. He would probably have done the same if Tsuzuki had suggested swimming naked in chocolate mousse. 

With a vague feeling of having done a good deed in a naughty world, Tsuzuki set out for the hospital wing. Almost immediately he encountered Wakaba and Terazuma. Wakaba was relatively unhurt, but Terazuma appeared to have been in close combat with one or several assailants. There were wire marks around his neck, katana slashes in his trenchcoat, claw scratches on his shoulder, and a solitary crossbow bolt dangling where it had entangled itself in the skirts of his coat. He didn't look happy. 

"They _said_ they were very sorry," cajoled Wakaba, in what was clearly an ongoing discussion, after a brief wave in Tsuzuki's direction. "At least, two of them did." 

Terazuma snorted. It sounded rather like a bull preparing to charge. "Oh, yes, after it was all over. And that didn't stop the tall sex maniac trying to flirt with you. Or the redhaired lunatic muttering die die die all the time." He ignored Tsuzuki. 

"I'm sure they're very nice people really," Wakaba postulated hopefully. 

"Kittens. Kittens. _Kittens,_" Terazuma muttered, as the two vanished down the corridor together. 

In the hospital wing, Tatsumi looked up with a pleasant smile as Tsuzuki nervously peered round the edge of the door. "Ah, Tsuzuki-san!" he greeted the younger shinigami. "How convenient of you to stop by." 

This could mean an immediate investigation of his expenses. "Neat!" Tsuzuki cheered, while preparing to cower and make huge eyes if necessary. "How can I help?" 

"Just stay here and watch Watari for a while. Be quiet, she's asleep." Tatsumi paused, and evidently misinterpreted the expression of joy on Tsuzuki's face. (Watching over a sleeping person was hardly going to be hard labor.) "I'll bring you some tea and a bun. You won't have to miss lunch." 

A few minutes later, Tsuzuki was comfortably settled with a mug of heavily sugared tea and a sticky bun, having decided not to protest this unusual generosity on the secretary's part. He sipped his tea as Tatsumi left the room, smiling happily as the sugar rush hit. 

And really, Watari's breathing was so peaceful, and the room was so quiet, that he could just close his eyes for a moment. 

He'd hear anybody if they came in. 

And Tatsumi would be back any second now. 

He was so sleepy. 

Just for a moment . . . 

---

Hisoka looked up from the blank page which he was still contemplating, and frowned. He thought that he'd heard footsteps. And it was later than he'd realized - shadows were drawing in, thickening in the corners of the room, sealing over the window as he turned to look out at the cherry trees . . . 

He managed to get halfway through the words for a warding incantation before the shadows wrapped themselves around him and threw him backwards against the wall. Pain flared in the back of his head, and his consciousness dipped, tilted . . . 

_I know who that is behind the shadows I've felt that coldness before but who who_

. . . faded to black. 

--- 

Tsuzuki walked down corridors which were curtained in amethyst silk and floored in ebony. He was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, but it seemed simpler to follow where the corridors took him. When he walked into the large central hall and saw Muraki standing there with a glass of wine, admiring the decor, it seemed almost natural -- something that he should have expected, rather than an unpleasant surprise. 

"You," he spat. "What are you doing to us? Why did you attack Watari?" 

The doctor blinked. He was in his customary white suit and trenchcoat, pale hair falling loosely over his right eye. "I? Tsuzuki-san, I have been abstemious and left you alone for a full week or more. What are you doing seeking me out in dreams?" His lips curled in a frankly salacious smile. "Are you hoping for another game of poker?" 

Tsuzuki's anger overcame his urge to blush and flinch. "Don't try and play games with me. I'm tired of it. Just tell me what's going on, Muraki-sensei, or we'll see if my shikigami can enter this dream of yours." 

Muraki reached up and adjusted his glasses thoughtfully with his free hand. "I'm sure they can. But Tsuzuki-san, believe me - I don't know what you're talking about." His gaze was pure opalescent grey, quite guileless, and suddenly far too close as he stood directly in front of Tsuzuki. "And this dream is from both of us. Do you dream of me often?" 

Tsuzuki didn't answer. He simply turned his back to the doctor, trying to think. _He could be lying. He always lies. But he doesn't sound as if he's lying. And why go to all the trouble of leaving a rose there and then lie about it?_

A pale hand settled on his shoulder, and he flinched. 

"Why so nervous?" Muraki purred. "It's only a dream." 

"Dreams with you in them are dangerous," Tsuzuki whispered. He could feel how close the other man was behind him, sense the heat of his body. 

"Mm." A finger came round to brush lightly against his lips, a bare shadow of a movement, too quick and gentle for him to resist. "I dream of you all the time. But . . ." The warm voice, deep and golden as amber, hesitated. "There's something wrong with your sleep, Tsuzuki-san. Why are you so sluggish? You should be quivering under my touch." 

Tsuzuki tried to pull himself together and ignore the odd lassitude which was echoing through his mind. "You seriously think I'm going to answer that?" he snapped. 

The hand on his shoulder turned him to face Muraki. There was something unusual in the tall man's pale eyes. It looked almost like concern. "Something's very wrong, Tsuzuki-san. You've been drugged. You need to wake up. Come and find me in the waking world." 

"Why are you concerned?" It was taking all his concentration to stay where he was, and not to recoil from Muraki. Anger helped, but anger would only go so far. And desire was something else again. Desire didn't help. Desire made him think of pale skin and imagine its softness, pale hair that would be like silk to his fingers, warm flesh which he could rest against, the firm control of those strong hands, a heated mouth . . . 

"And besides," Muraki murmured, in tones that should only have been used after midnight and between lovers, "you wouldn't have found me here in dreams if you hadn't been looking for me. I shall remember that, Tsuzuki-san. I shall remember that." 

He reached forward to take Tsuzuki in his arms. With a cry of sudden panic, the shinigami threw up his hands and 

**time moves**

**wake up**

opened his eyes to find himself making a slow, langorous, half-asleep gesture that was a frail mimicry of his violent shove at Muraki. 

The room was quiet. 

Tatsumi was standing next to Watari's bed, silent, a pillow in his hands as he looked down at the sleeping scientist. There was something strange about his smile. 

--- 

Hisoka was aware of darkness - not the earlier abyssal shadows, but simple lack of light. He was also painfully aware that he was naked, and that he was neatly trussed up like a chicken for market, with his arms fastened behind his back at elbows and wrists, and legs strapped together at knees and ankles. The kind soul who had tied him up had also gagged him and fastened his wrists to his ankles, or so a certain amount of painful squirming suggested. There was enough air to breathe if he was careful and didn't struggle. 

He didn't know where he was. He could, however, deduce what he was in, from smell and relative size - a packing crate, and not a particularly large one at that. There was a splinter digging into his left middle finger. He found it quite unreasonably painful for its small size. 

He attempted to use his powers. None of them seemed to work. 

_On the one hand,_ Hisoka thought, _this is bad. On the other hand, this could be worse. I could be . . ._ He tried to think of situations that could be worse. His mind stubbornly refused to cooperate, apparently under the impression that not only was he probably going to meet a horrible fate, but that when the other shinigami found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it. _That implies my survival._ he thought hopefully. The back of his mind wasn't very convinced. 

He settled down and tried to occupy himself by working out the number of ways that this was Tsuzuki's fault, and how to express this to his partner when next they met. 

Sound, now, outside the crate - a blur of voices, then footsteps. The crate was lifted up, carried a short distance, then set down with a painful jolt. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed. 

Then there was the noise of ripping tape, and glowing cracks appeared in the surrounding darkness. And then the lid of the crate came off in a burst of light. Hisoka blinked upwards, tilting his head painfully to try to see where he was. 

Muraki was looking down at him. The doctor was in a grey yukata, hair loosely dangling over his right eye as always, a faint smile curving his lips. Hisoka could physically _feel_ the older man's eyes moving over him, possessive, considering, promising pain. 

"Well," Muraki murmured. "Apparently it's my birthday." 

---

Fanfic Page 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

"Tatsumi?" Tsuzuki mumbled. It was oddly difficult to speak: his mouth felt as if it were full of cotton wool, and he seemed to be having difficulty coordinating his thoughts. "Is something the matter with Watari?" 

Tatsumi spun on one heel with surprising speed, pillow still held firmly between his hands, and hesitated for half a second before saying, "Good. You're awake, Tsuzuki-san. I thought for a moment that you might have fallen asleep." He shook his head, as though tired himself. "I . . . yes. It seemed to me that an extra pillow might help Watari-san sleep better. But perhaps I should leave him - her - be. What do you think?" 

"I think," said Tsuzuki, fighting back a yawn, "that Watari's just woken up." 

The blonde shinigami peered up from the bed, then fumbled one hand over to the table nearby and managed to secure her glasses. Gazing upwards thoughtfully at Tatsumi, she inquired, "Why are you holding a pillow, Tatsumi-san? Is it valuable evidence?" 

Tatsumi dropped the pillow on her bed with a snort. "No. Sometimes a pillow is just a pillow, Watari-san. I am glad to see that you are resting so well." 

Watari jerked her head nervously. "I'm doing better! Really!" She glanced across to Tsuzuki, and her eyes narrowed. "Where's Hisoka-kun?" 

Tsuzuki stretched, and tried to ignore the feeling that his head had been wrapped in cotton wool and that he was about to fall over and snooze for twelve hours or so. "Oh, he was working on writing down stuff about Muraki. I just left him alone so he could think about it more easily." Now that he verbalised his thoughts, they began to sound suspiciously full of dangerous holes. "Er . . . tell you what, I'll just go and check on him!" 

He dodged out of the room before either of the others could catch him, and sprinted down the corridor. 

The room was empty. Empty of Hisoka, that was. A scattering of blank papers lay on the table, weighed down by a solitary fountain pen. The chair had been tipped over, and rested on the floor, rocking slightly in the draught from the window. There was no sign - verbal, physical, or emotional - of the young empath. 

"No," Tsuzuki muttered to himself. Then, louder, he shouted, "No! HISOKA!" 

But there was no answer. 

--- 

The emergency meeting held five minutes later in Watari's sickroom produced a notable lack of results. Wakaba and Terazuma stopped in briefly - she leaving a noticeable trail of sakura petals behind her, he with all the signs of having "gone monster" in the recent past, and both wearing dark glasses. 

"Well, there was this guy who made them look really cool," was Wakaba's explanation. 

"Don't ask," muttered Terazuma. "Damn big green eyes." 

Curiously, Tatsumi seemed strangely unconcerned by Hisoka's absence. As he pointed out, the boy might have decided to travel up to Earth briefly to check on something. "Unlike some of us," he commented, "who do so solely to buy Cinnabons." His gaze rested pointedly on Tsuzuki, who blushed and developed a cute kicked-puppy look. "I agree that we are in a state of emergency, but I don't think we need to worry about him quite yet. Of course, if he doesn't turn up in an hour or so . . ." 

Tsuzuki glanced down at Watari, and was surprised to see that the blonde shinigami's eyes were narrowed in concentration. The scientist looked up at him, blinked, and then assumed a bland _expression of vague focus. "Of course, Tatsumi-san," she said warmly. "The boy's probably just wandered off to investigate something which has come to mind. He's even worse than Tsuzuki-san that way." 

Tsuzuki muttered something from his corner about how nobody liked him and he had been investigating for the Department for 70 years now, and where was the boss in all of this, anyhow? 

"Talking to the higher-ups," replied Tatsumi. He was experienced at interpreting Tsuzuki's mumbles by now. "In the meantime . . ." He sighed. "Perhaps I should keep you with me in my office, Tsuzuki-san, to make sure that you don't wander off too." 

"He can stay here, can't he?" put in Watari. She lowered her eyelashes delicately. "I'd feel safer - and I can help him with his expenses." 

Tatsumi hesitated, then shrugged. "If you think that's best." He patted Tsuzuki on the shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Tsuzuki-san. I'm sure Hisoka will be back shortly." 

Tsuzuki wandered across to the window, and gazed out gloomily at the cherry trees as Tatsumi's footsteps faded away down the corridor. 

"Well, come on!" Watari's voice broke in on his meditations. He turned to see the blonde scientist clambering out of bed, and showing a lot of leg in the process from under her nightshirt. "We haven't got much time . . . oof!" She swayed, stumbled, and sat down abruptly on the floor, trying to get her breath back. 

Tsuzuki eyed her, mouth agape in incomprehension. 

"Oh, don't be stupid, and give me a hand up," she said crossly. "We need to find Hisoka fast. I'll explain the rest when we're up on earth. Lend me your trenchcoat. No, the one you're wearing will do just fine." 

Tsuzuki gallantly helped Watari to her feet, then draped the trenchcoat over her shoulders so that she could cover her hospital gown. "But why do you believe me?" he asked worriedly. "Not that I'm complaining, of course . . ." 

Watari gazed into his eyes, then nodded as if confirming something to herself. 

It was very strange, Tsuzuki had to admit, to try to equate the fragile woman he was holding with his incredibly genki scientist colleague. Something in his brain just shrugged at the concept, threw up its hands, gave up the struggle, and went to fantasize about apple pie. 

"It's because I've decided that I trust you," Watari finally said. "Please. Now. We'll explain to Tatsumi later." 

Tsuzuki had never yet been able to refuse a sincere appeal for help, whether from woman, boy, or slice of cake which needed finishing off. The fact that he wanted to find Hisoka only confirmed him in the decision. "Of course," he said. 

Five minutes later they were on Earth - in Nagasaki, at Watari's suggestion, with Watari still bundled up in Tsuzuki's trenchcoat. Tsuzuki had suggested that they get her some proper clothes first, but the blonde had declined, muttering something about, "get out first, explain later," which didn't make a great deal of sense. 

Or perhaps it did, but Tsuzuki didn't want to think about that. 

What he found himself concentrating on was an odd sense of direction that seemed to have switched itself on in the back of his head. He _knew_, in an abstracted sort of way, which direction he had to go in. Of course, it was obvious what it was - it had to be some sort of signal from Hisoka, an appeal for rescue or a method of guidance. And best of all, it felt relatively close, half an hour away at most. 

"No problem," he told an increasingly pale Watari. "Now explain what's going on?" He didn't want to mention his dream of Muraki. It surely wasn't relevant what he thought about the man, after all - what he felt about him, what he dreamed about him . . . 

Watari blinked long-lashed eyes, and muttered something incomprehensible. She was far weaker than she had expected. It was taking all her strength to fly and remain invisible. She'd had to reprioritise drastically. "I'll tell you when we've reached Hisoka, Tsuzuki-san, that way I only have to explain to one of you at once." After all, she consoled herself, trying to ignore a vague feeling that it would be far more sensible to sit Tsuzuki down and explain everything right this minute, checking on Hisoka was a priority. And Tsuzuki should be able to handle any problems with his shikigamis - though surely, if he was receiving a homing signal of some sort (oh, to have my lab and analyse it!) then the boy couldn't be in any particularly bad trouble. 

Half an hour later, they stood in front of an old house on the outskirts of the city. It was well-kept, and clearly belonged to someone with the money to take care of it and the taste to arrange an elegant garden outside. Wisteria climbed up the side of the house, arching over the door, pale purple flowers half open and swaying in the wind. 

"So who lives here?" Watari gasped, trying to get her breath back. It was taking all her energy not to sway over and lean against Tsuzuki. _Didn't realise it'd be this bad, didn't realise it would be this bad . . ._ It had been an absolute priority to get out of there, she reminded herself, pressing her lips together till they turned white, and keeping upright by sheer force of will. 

"No idea," replied Tsuzuki cheerfully. "But it feels like the endpoint!" He leaned forward and rang the doorbell. 

A few seconds later, the door was answered by an elderly-looking woman, in an old-fashioned black dress with her hair up in a tight grey bun. She blinked at the two shinigami, face bland, but eyes glinting with unexpressed opinion on Tsuzuki's windblown hair and Watari's hospital-gown-under-trenchcoat haute couture. Finally, she said, "You'd better come in." 

As the door closed behind them, the wind caught the wisteria again, and blew a few tendrils aside from the gleaming brass plate by the door, which they had hidden. Engraved on it were the words, MURAKI, MD. 

---

Fanfic Page 


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six 

Tatsumi was worried. He would not show it, oh no. The Department depended too much on his stoic calm, his unflappability, and his ability to give icy glares. He wasn't going to start shaking now. He couldn't afford to. 

And besides, what was he going to say? _I think I may be losing my memory._ Too flat. _I've got a slight problem . . ._ Too vague. _For a moment when I had that pillow in my hands, I couldn't remember why I picked it up . . ._ An unimportant point. 

But there had been something so odd in Tsuzuki's eyes as he asked what was going on. He'd seemed almost frightened. 

Tatsumi didn't like frightening Tsuzuki. Poor little Tsuzuki. He should be looked after carefully, and scolded frequently. Yes. He needed to be scolded for running off like this. 

For a moment, in a flash of clarity, Tatsumi looked into the mug of tea which had been left to go cold on his desk, and wondered if he was going insane. Everything seemed to make a pattern which he should recognise, if only he could think clearly and reason logically. Hisoka vanishing, then Tsuzuki and Watari gone, Wakaba and Terazuma off on a wild goose chase round the most dangerous mystics and assassins in Japan . . . 

**it's not a wild goose chase, it's only sensible**

**Muraki might be hiding there**

**he's hiding from you**

**he's going to hurt Tsuzuki**

Tatsumi rubbed at his temples. His headache was getting worse. He had to protect Tsuzuki and the others and keep them safe from Muraki. That was a priority. How _dare_ Tsuzuki be so stupid and rebellious as to go running off at a time like this? 

It almost made him want to . . . 

The thought never quite took concrete form. It curled up and hid itself in the shadows of his mind, like an encysted egg, wrapped around by darkness. 

No. That was stupid. It wasn't Tsuzuki's fault if he was worried about Hisoka. And had he perhaps been too hasty in saying that the boy was doubtless safe and well and would be back soon? He wasn't back yet, after all. Could something have happened to him? 

Perhaps Hisoka himself had run off on a private investigation. Maybe it had been a less than perfect idea to force the boy to think about Muraki . . . 

**but who could have done it better?**

**and he'd have said if he didn't want to do it, surely**

**an annoying boy**

**if anything has happened to him, he deserves it**

Tatsumi tasted blood, and realised that he had bitten his lip. 

Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he should inform Konoe, and ask him to take charge of the investigation. 

**you can't trust the old man**

**he doesn't care about Tsuzuki like we do**

**like you do**

**you have to find Tsuzuki**

There was a blankness in his mind when he tried to think about certain details of the last few hours. The last few days. He probed at them as though they were missing teeth. He had to be able to think clearly. The shadows answered his desires, and he couldn't risk going near anyone if his mind wasn't clear. He had to know what he wanted. He had to think. 

**it's Muraki's fault**

Yes. It was Muraki's fault. 

**you have to find Tsuzuki**

Of course. He'd find Tsuzuki and make sure he was safe. And Watari. And the boy. He had to take care of all of them. Something to hold onto. He'd find them and take care of them and keep them safe. 

The darkness rose in his mind, as comforting as his own shadows. 

**and then you have to scold Tsuzuki for running away**

Oh yes. 

---

Fanfic Page 


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven 

Elsewhere, Terazuma was assessing the situation while his partner carried out negotiations. _Well, one of the boys may _look_ like a young Muraki, but he eats like Tsuzuki. And the general vibes around here are peaceful enough. Of course, things would be going faster if Wakaba didn't keep on stopping to coo over how kawaii the girl's costume is, and if I wasn't being held tight by the branches from that blasted Woody card . . ._

---- 

The elderly woman led Tsuzuki and a shaky Watari down an elegantly austere corridor and into a pleasant lounge, lightly decorated in white and grey, with pale silver accents, and with the morning light streaming in through the large windows. It reminded Tsuzuki vaguely of some half-remembered dream. 

Muraki was sitting at the table, dark grey yukata tied neatly, white hair falling over his right eye. Just as always. Just as if his being here, as if their arrival, were perfectly ordinary things. The table had the relics of a half-finished breakfast on it - omelettes and toast, apparently, next to a half-full jug of grapefruit juice and a small expresso-sized coffee cup. Next to Muraki's chair was a large wooden crate, the top unfastened but left lying loosely on top. An odd bumping noise came from it. 

Muraki looked up from his coffee as though the two shinigami were casual friends, welcome at any hour in his house, and hardly unexpected visitors with a potentially lethal grudge against him. "Tsuzuki-san!" he exclaimed. "How pleasant to see you. And . . ." His eyes wandered to Watari, and he considered her with a polite if perplexed frown. "This lady is your, ah, cousin?" 

The bumping noises from the crate grew more violent. 

"No, this is Watari. I'm sure you've heard about Watari. You seem to know about everything else," Tsuzuki replied absently, looking around for any sign of Hisoka. "Wait. What are _you_ doing here?" 

Muraki blinked. "I live here. And to the best of my knowledge, the famous scientist Watari of the JuOhCho district is male. Am I misinformed?" He politely rose from his seat, and drew out a chair so that the obviously swaying Watari could sit down. 

"I, ah, am Watari," the blonde shinigami muttered. "Thank you very much, by the way. I've enjoyed reading some of your articles in the Lancet . . ." 

Tsuzuki threw up his hands. "Watari-san, this is Muraki. We aren't here to discuss scientific advances?" 

"Oh," Muraki murmured, "don't be so aggressive, Tsuzuki-san. I have no objection to your friends visiting as well as you." 

"We aren't here to visit you!" Tsuzuki snapped, then backed away several paces hastily, retreating behind Watari's chair. _Where is Hisoka?_ he wondered frantically. Could the boy be a prisoner of the sadistic doctor, chained in some silk-hung bedroom, lying naked and helpless . . . He swallowed. "What do you know about the attacks in JuOhCho?" he demanded. 

Muraki frowned. "As I said before . . ." 

"When before?" Watari interrupted. 

"Tsuzuki-san was in my dreams." Muraki smiled reminiscently. Strange thumps started to come from the crate near his chair again. "But truly, I know nothing about any strange goings-on in JuOhCho for the moment. I know you may find this hard to believe. Seriously, though, what motive would I have for trying to turn Watari-san here into a woman?" 

"Actually," Watari pointed out, "it was someone trying to strangle me. But I don't think it was you, Muraki-sensei." 

Muraki adjusted his glasses with his left hand. "It is good to see that someone has some faith in me." 

"Besides," Watari continued logically, "if it had been you, I'm fairly sure you'd have checked to make certain that I was dead." 

The silver-haired doctor smiled pleasantly. "Only an amateur would neglect that sort of detail." He turned to Tsuzuki. "So what can I do for you, Tsuzuki-san? If you are having problems, I'd be delighted to put you up for a few days - or, rather, for a few nights . . ." 

Tsuzuki swallowed nervously. "Oh, I have absolutely no intention of trespassing on your hospitality." _You've got twelve shikigamis backing you up,_ he reminded himself, _and a pocketful of ofudas. Stay in control. Stop looking at the line of his throat._ "I'm looking for Hisoka." 

Again there came a volley of thumps from the crate. 

"What's in there?" Watari inquired curiously. 

"An early birthday present," Muraki said blandly. "Tsuzuki-san, you are growing somewhat obsessive about the boy. If I promised you that I had nothing to do with his disappearance, and helped you to find him, would you take that as proof of my bona fides and consider staying here a while? Clearly JuOhCho is not safe." 

Tsuzuki looked to Watari, then back to Muraki again, then back to Watari. "Watari, are you absolutely sure that Muraki-sensei had nothing to do with what's currently going on?" 

"Unfortunately," Watari sighed, "yes." 

Tsuzuki frowned, amethyst eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Assuming that Hisoka confirms that you had nothing to do with his kidnapping . . . all right. A temporary truce." 

Muraki's mouth curled in a dreadful, slow, caressing smile. "A very wise decision." 

Tsuzuki plucked nervously at his collar, which felt rather too tight. "Now can you help us find Hisoka?" 

Muraki sighed, and sat back down again. "Always this preoccupation with the boy. Very well. Before we go any further, I wish to make it quite clear that I had nothing whatsoever to do with his kidnapping. As he can and will testify, I hope." 

Tsuzuki didn't like the sound of this. "And?" 

Muraki shrugged, an elegant lift of one shoulder. "He's in the crate here. Such a noisy boy." 

Tsuzuki was across the room in the blink of an eyelid, grabbing Muraki by the collar of his yukata and hauling him out of his chair. "He's _what_?" 

"In the crate." Muraki was still smiling, and he raised one long-fingered hand to stroke Tsuzuki's wrist. "You don't play poker very well, do you, Tsuzuki-san? He turned up in that crate on my doorstep about an hour or so. I was -- well, let's not go into that." 

"Didn't your housekeeper comment on it at all?" Watari asked curiously. 

"Oh, I enchanted her a while ago," Muraki explained casually. 

"You _what_!" Tsuzuki exclaimed in disgust. Really, it was only what one might expect from a twisted mastermind like Muraki, but even so . . . 

"Asato." Muraki seemed to be tasting the word. "Asato, how can you possibly object to me doing such a thing? It's for her own peace of mind. And I really don't want to have to get a new housekeeper. She makes omelettes just the way that I like them." 

"The name is _Tsuzuki_," the shinigami growled, dropping Muraki back in his chair and turning to the crate. He tugged the lid off with a single brisk jerk. 

Inside was Hisoka. He was naked, trussed like a chicken, and had an apple wedged in his mouth. He stared up at Tsuzuki with a gaze that combined a furious entreaty to be released with a bitter embarrassment. 

Several minutes later, once a yukata had been brought down from Muraki's wardrobe for Hisoka (Hisoka would have refused it, but Watari made it quite clear that she wasn't going to hand over Tsuzuki's trenchcoat and sit there in a hospital gown, and Tsuzuki's jacket simply didn't cover enough) and immediate questions of homicide had been set aside, the shinigamis and the doctor settled down to coffee and cakes. The housekeeper had brought both, still not seeming to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

Tsuzuki looked across to Hisoka. The boy still seemed uncomfortable, even in the sakura-decorated yukata which Muraki had helpfully offered. _Perhaps,_ a flag of memory suggested, _a different pattern might have induced less stress._ "So, Hisoka," he began cheerfully, "what happened?" 

Hisoka didn't look at any of the others at the table as he took a deep breath. "I was working," he said flatly. "As Tatsumi had suggested. Then I looked around and the windows were covered with darkness. And then a wave of shadow hit me and I don't remember anything else." 

He looked up, perhaps startled by the total silence his words provoked, and saw very curious expressions on the faces of the others. Watari's expression was thin with tension, Muraki's thoughtful but vaguely amused and disturbed at the same time, and Tsuzuki . . . Tsuzuki looked like a man hearing his own death sentence. "Tsuzuki-san?" he asked, moved by a sudden impulse of concern. "What is it?" 

Tsuzuki looked down at the smears of cream on his empty plate. Slowly, he said, "There's only one kagetsukai, one master of shadows, in JuOhCho." 

Muraki nodded. "That's what I heard. His master . . . operates elsewhere." 

Hisoka's hands balled into fists. Slowly he forced them open and made his breathing slow, using the control which he had learned in long years of illness and isolation. "But who?" 

Watari closed her eyes. "Tatsumi-san." 

---

Fanfic Page 


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight 

"I don't believe it," Hisoka said flatly. "It's impossible." He looked around the table at the three others, and his voice was thin and strained. "It has to be impossible." 

Watari twisted a long golden thread of her hair around her right index finger, pulling at it absently till it snapped, and then blinked. "No," she said gently. "Hisoka-kun, do you remember when I checked Tsuzuki for injuries after the fight with the demon with the cursed violin?" 

"Yes," Hisoka said dryly. "And you missed one, too." 

Muraki seemed to tense at his end of the table, like a pale thundercloud beginning to draw itself together and prepare a deadly lightning. "What was this?" 

Tsuzuki raised both hands to intercede. "It was like this. Hisoka and I were investigating a case together, and it turned out to have a demon behind it who was involved with a bargain and a cursed violin. It was Brig-" 

"Don't say it!" Muraki and Watari snapped together, then blinked at each other in mild surprise. 

"Don't say it, Tsuzuki-san," Watari added. "Write it down. Saying his name draws his attention if he's anywhere near." 

Muraki removed a small notepad and pencil from a pocket in his yukata, and placed it on the table beside Tsuzuki. He smiled warmly as Tsuzuki waited till the doctor had withdrawn his hand before reaching for the pad. "Indeed, Watari-san. Any competent demonologist knows that." 

Tsuzuki flushed, and made several attempts at the proper katakana before Hisoka sighed, commandeered the paper and pencil, and scribbled down **Makai Grand Duke Dragon Cavalry Lord Ashitarote's servant, Brigade Leader Saagatanasu**. "That one," he said baldly, flicking the pad back to Muraki. 

Muraki raised an icy eyebrow, then inspected the name. His visible eye widened a touch. "Tsuzuki-san, you don't do things by halves, do you?" 

"How is it that everyone here except me knows all about demons?" Tsuzuki asked the ceiling. He looked down again, and saw Muraki opening his mouth to answer. An icy chill ran down his spine - like fingers, he thought - as he considered exactly what the psychotic doctor might reply. "Er, don't answer that." 

"No real thirst for knowledge," Muraki commented sadly. 

"I've always thought that," Watari agreed, remembering the cold-hearted refusal to serve as experimental subject for countless sex-change potion attempts. She coughed. "Er, that is, I see that you know of the demon in question, Muraki-sensei." 

Muraki nodded. "Direct subordinate of the commander of the Spirit Brigade. Rumored ability to steal a person's soul and take command of . . ." He paused. "Oh. Oh, I see." 

"What do you see?" Hisoka asked resentfully. He didn't see, personally, and he still wasn't happy about having to be rescued by the others - and from such a humiliating position, too. _And terrifying_, the back of his mind whispered. _Have you really forgotten how frightened you were?_

Muraki didn't even bother to look at him. "Simple enough, boy. Your Tatsumi has been possessed by this demon." 

Hisoka was shaking his head before the older man had finished. "No, no, that's not possible. It's dead. We saw it torn apart by Tsuzuki's shikigamis. There was blood everywhere." But it was coming back to him now, that coldness he had felt just before unconsciousness, and how familiar it had seemed. _I felt it before, and now I know where._ "He wasn't even hurt . . ." he pointed out hopefully. 

Tsuzuki reached across and patted Hisoka on the arm. _Must be supportive, must be helpful, must try and ignore Muraki stroking his foot against mine . . ._ "I think everyone took some minor bumps and grazes during the, um, confusion." He blushed, remembering his part in it, then realized Muraki's gaze was resting appreciatively on him, and blushed even more. 

Watari drank some of her coffee. She was feeling a little better now. "The demon must have decided to be more cunning this time. It lay low and made plans. It tried to eliminate me when it found out that I was planning a general physical inspection . . ." 

Tsuzuki sighed and slumped in his chair. "I am not overweight and I do not need to eat less cakes." 

"If I may continue? Thank you," Watari stated briskly. "Anyhow, he tried to murder me and incriminate Muraki-sensei here." 

Muraki nodded amiably. "Of course you are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish," he said helpfully. The direction of his gaze made it quite clear toward whom in particular the invitation was directed. 

Tsuzuki tried to avoid the silver-haired doctor's gaze, bringing both feet back underneath his chair. "But why didn't he attack me?" he asked, genuinely confused. 

"That's obvious," Hisoka said dryly. "You're the one Tatsumi cares most about. If the demon outright tried to kill you, Tatsumi would struggle and might even manage to break his control." 

"Really?" Muraki queried. 

"We used to be partners," Tsuzuki explained. "But he was willing to kill both of you . . ." 

"There's affection and affection," Watari said briefly, and hoped that she could leave it at that. It was, after all, incredibly obvious to anybody who actually bothered to watch Tsuzuki and Tatsumi interacting. "He was probably working his way up to you. If he could persuade Tatsumi-san to despair and give in, then murdering you would be the sort of blow that Tatsumi-san would never recover from. It'd cement his control. As it is, from what I remember of the books I read, he's probably blurring Tatsumi's memories and mind, and taking control only at important moments." 

"Don't worry, Tsuzuki-san." Muraki leaned across the table, and patted Tsuzuki's hand, letting his fingers rest against the shinigami's skin gently. "I won't let him get you." 

Tsuzuki gritted his teeth and didn't try to pull his hand away. _Of course I want to,_ he reassured himself. _Of course I want to._ "While I appreciate your concern," he said formally, "I think that our primary objective has to be to free Tatsumi and get rid of the demon for good. Right, Watari?" 

Watari nodded. "The creature probably has something of a fixation against you by now. Like, ah . . ." She carefully didn't look at anyone at the table, least of all Muraki. "That is, we need to work out how to do it. A full ritual of exorcism might serve, as we have its name." 

"Wouldn't we actually have to have it here to do that?" asked Hisoka, drawn in despite himself. "Or have Tatsumi-san here, rather?" 

"That," said Muraki dryly, "is the plan's weak point. On the other hand, it might work, if we could subdue it fast enough. What about your own resources, Tsuzuki-san? Would any of your beautiful shikigamis be able to purify him, or could you call on your superiors for help?" 

Tsuzuki twitched, remembering how close he had come to condemnation for what he had done while possessed by the creature. "That . . ." He hesitated. "That could be awkward. Kacho Konoe - our direct boss - would do his best to help, but there are some people who'd think the best course of action would be to kill Tatsumi and damn the consequences." He looked directly at Muraki, for almost the first time in the conversation. _Is that what you personally want?_ he wondered. _Now that you've heard that he cares about me, are you planning a little accident?_

Muraki made a small, irritated noise deep in his throat, and leaned forward, white hair ruffling in a smooth wave over his hidden eye. "Tsuzuki-san, I am not an empath like some people at this table, but neither am I stupid. You have come to me for help. Frankly, I'm touched." He darted an irritated glare at Hisoka, who was for some reason having a spasm of disbelieving coughing, then continued, "I am currently more interested in seducing you than in killing your friends. I even gave you that annoying boy back. What more will it take to convince you?" 

"Divine intervention," Hisoka muttered sotto voce. 

"The doctor has a point," Watari commented, blushing scarlet from the "seduce you" comment. 

Tsuzuki took a deep breath, and nodded. "I do trust you. I wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't." _Sitting very close to him_, the back of his mind commented, _able to smell his cologne and imagine how soft his hair is._ "But . . ." 

There was a crash from the direction of the front door. Muraki was on his feet instantly, with a cat-like litheness, and wrenched back the door of the lounge to look into the hall. 

Shadows rolled through it in waves of blackness, like combers breaking on the shore of some distant ocean of night. At the end of the corridor, silhouetted against the early afternoon light, stood the figure of a man in a business suit. 

"You must be the notorious Doctor Muraki," Tatsumi said. Shadows lapped around his raised right hand in a thin glove of ebony, and made blank onyx crystals of his glasses. "We have so much to discuss." 

---

Fanfic Page 


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine 

"And you," Muraki replied with equal courtesy and icy menace, "must be the well-known secretary Tatsumi of the JuOhCho department." The abruptly rising wind whipped the skirts of his yukata around his legs, and set his sleeves swinging. "I do not recall issuing an invitation." 

"I," said Tatsumi, voice as cool and absent-minded as winter moonlight, "do not recall needing an invitation." 

"Then you are here because . . ." The doctor let the sentence trail off, inviting an answer. 

Watari held onto Tsuzuki's arm with all her strength. The coffee and cakes had helped, but even now she didn't have her usual power. The pencil and paper left lying on the table offered opportunities, but that would mean letting go of Tsuzuki, who would promptly throw himself into the middle of the confrontation, and -- well, the results bid fair to be appalling. 

Hisoka took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate on the steps for a ReiBaku. It hadn't been spectacularly successful on a possessed Tsuzuki, but it had worked for a while, and it might just slow Tatsumi down enough to let Muraki exorcise him. _Or,_ a traitorous little voice whispered at the back of his mind, _perhaps after Muraki's been hurt a bit. Or a lot. Tsuzuki and Watari can deal with Tatsumi then. He'll have been slowed down. It's the easiest way to do it. The most expedient way. The safest way. Don't do anything yet._ His hands faltered, and the words blurred in his mind. _Hei . . . Sha . . . no, wait, wait . . ._

"Because I have had enough." Tatsumi's steps punctuated his words as he made his way down the corridor. "Enough murders. Enough lies. Enough psychological warfare. Enough cruelty. I think that it's time to put an end to things once and for all. Don't you agree, Dr Muraki?" 

Muraki raised one hand silently. Lines of deep amethyst light, virulent in their intensity, traced across the floor to form a circled five-pointed star around him. 

"_Stop_ it!" Tsuzuki was desperate. "Tatsumi-san, please, listen to me. Muraki didn't do it." He thought frantically for an explanation that didn't immediately involve the thesis of _you're possessed_. "Someone's trying to get us to waste our strength by fighting each other. Just this once, Muraki's not guilty." 

Tatsumi turned to look at him, and the terrible blank rage and condescending pity in his eyes made Tsuzuki flinch. "He's bewitched you. All of you. Try to remember what he's done before, Tsuzuki-san." 

Watari coughed, and swallowed phlegm. _Must have inhaled more chemical fumes than I thought . . ._ "I can bear witness that Muraki didn't do it," she lied. _If it will convince Tatsumi to stand down . . ._ "It wasn't him." She tried to put conviction into her voice, as she looked at the tall man in glasses and business suit whose eyes were so utterly distant and dark. "If ever we have been friends, Tatsumi-san, if ever you have trusted my judgment, believe me now." 

"And what does Dr Muraki have to say in all this?" Tatsumi queried mildly. 

Muraki shrugged one elegant shoulder. "If you won't believe them, then I doubt that you will believe me." 

--- 

The light was failing faster, now; Tatsumi's mind swam with shadows, and they layered themselves over his memory and motivations like curtains of velvet. He'd come here 

**to find Tsuzuki**

and to 

**to stop Muraki**

and he should 

**scold Tsuzuki**

but he couldn't do that, he cared about Tsuzuki-san, Asato-chan, the poor loving boy who offered up his heart so easily to everyone around him, who wore his kindness like a mantle and then was surprised when others turned to him as though he was the sun, who smiled so gently and who drew the great creatures of power by his bright innocence and unthinking love. 

He couldn't hurt him. 

**then it's Muraki's fault**

Yes, that felt better. He could do that. It made sense. Shadows linked like chains in the depths of his mind, covering over some part that was screaming and struggling, shielding him from whatever it was trying to say, blocking off the cries that he knew who was doing this, knew whose hands were bloody . . . 

**It's Muraki's fault**

Of course it was Muraki's fault, who else could it be? 

**Muraki hurt Tsuzuki, Muraki hurt your Tsuzuki, Muraki's going to keep on hurting your Tsuzuki unless you stop him**

**let me show you how to stop him**

Images flickered before his eyes, congealing for a moment out of the ambient darkness, and Tatsumi smiled, and stepped forward, and thought about blood, and humiliation, and agony. 

--- 

Shadows shifted around Tatsumi, and ran like veins through the walls and floor and ceiling, then _flexed_. The whole house creaked and leaned against itself, parts of it coming apart or tumbling inwards, timber and bricks groaning and straining as though it screamed in pain. The coffee pot and the cups and plates jumped and clattered on the table as the house shook. 

Tsuzuki could see Muraki's mouth moving, but the doctor's voice was lost in the noise. Strange shapes shifted and formed in front of the pentagram, creatures like winged dogs with the beaks of eagles and eyes as dark as dried blood. They hissed, bated their wings, and began to stalk towards Tatsumi. 

Strands of shadow tore them apart and into bloody shreds. They fell in spatters across the floor, staining the pale wooden tiling. 

Tsuzuki turned to grab Hisoka. "Quick! Use a ReiBaku on him to hold him where he is!" 

Hisoka's hands were shaking. He mumbled something inaudible, unable to meet Tsuzuki's eyes. 

"Hisoka!" Tsuzuki screamed. "Do it!" Of course he could summon one of his shikigamis, Suzaku or Byakko perhaps, but what would they do to Tatsumi's possessed body? 

Tatsumi's shadows surged around Muraki's pentacle like an ocean of night, probing for a way in. Flakes of shadow spun like shuriken through the air, but were deflected by the rising lines of purple fire. The amethyst light gave Muraki an otherworldly appearance. His visible eye was narrowed in concentration, and he moved his hands in a smooth pattern of passes as he spoke again, words that tore at the air. 

Watari was a second ahead of everyone else in diving for cover. _Next time we go to someone other than a demonologist_, she reflected, as she hit the floor behind a sofa. 

The fire-breathing hydra rose out of the darkness with a huge delicacy that had a strange beauty to it. Pale gold scales shone amid the shadows as it lowered its heads towards Tatsumi, venom and fire brimming at the creature's lips. 

Muraki glanced towards Tsuzuki. Their eyes met. Once again, Tsuzuki thought, _I could lose myself in this desire._ The colors of the scene, black and amethyst and gold, reflected themselves in Muraki's glasses and in his colorless iris in a shattered rainbow eclipse. 

Then Muraki lowered his hand in a sharp, chopping gesture. The creature settled down towards Tatsumi like a writhing sea anemone, necks curling round him to hold him still, lips sealed on their load of fire. 

Tsuzuki swallowed, mute in disbelief and gratitude. _He did it. He stopped him without killing him. He actually kept his word . . ._ He tried to think about how much power Tatsumi could usually command. _Must be almost at his limit now. When he's exhausted then we can reason with him, exorcise him or whatever._

Shadow exploded outwards in a hail of razors that tore through the hydra's body in sprays of ichor. It reared backwards, screaming in an awful pentatone scale of agony, and crumpled backwards. 

One outflung head of the dying creature fell across the border of Muraki's pentacle. 

The darkness came rushing in after it. 

---

Fanfic Page 


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten   
  
Shadows peeled open Muraki's pentagram like knives twitching back the skins of an onion. The layers of amethyst light folded back with a sound that shivered glass, and then Muraki and Tatsumi were both lost in the storm of darkness.  
  
Watari raised her head from behind the sofa, then ducked as a loose tendril of shadow nearly trimmed her hair. "Tsuzuki!" she screamed. "Call Suzaku! Or Byakko! Or something!"  
  
Tsuzuki was paralysed with if/then and if/if not and but-what-if-I contradictions. He didn't actually want Muraki torn to bits. He couldn't risk Tatsumi being hurt. The darkness seemed to avoid him, leaving him in a bubble of comparative light, as though a single sunbeam was striking down on him.  
  
Hisoka had dived for cover with the fall of the hydra creature. He didn't need any sort of empathy or psychometry to tell him that things were going badly wrong. "Tsuzuki!" he called towards the hesitating shinigami. "Take cover, idiot!" The demon's malice was like a second wind in the air beside the purely physical; it rasped over his skin in a thousand tiny poisonous grains of frost, as far beyond human as it was beyond compassion.  
  
---  
  
Time stretched out around Tsuzuki in a long moment, and all he could think was, _no_.  
  
He would not tolerate this.  
  
No, because Tatsumi had always cared for him and tried to help, and even the times that he had drawn back because he couldn't carry Tsuzuki's sorrows for him and couldn't stop his tears were, in the end, because he'd cared, for otherwise they would never have touched him.  
  
No, because the creature had intended Hisoka's death or worse, had tried to kill Watari, had done everything he could to hurt and harm and destroy.  
  
No, because even Muraki, and whatever mixture of fear and desire and loathing and need he felt for the man didn't matter now, even Muraki had tried to protect him, and had tried to spare Tatsumi's life rather than killing him on sight, and even if the psychopathic doctor deserved death for some of the things he had done -- even then -- he didn't deserve the creature's malice and pain. Nobody did. Death should be enough to settle all accounts.  
  
(And that might have meant something to him, if he had bothered to think about it any further, and considered the fundamental difference between two descendants of darkness, but time was running out, and the thought slipped from his mind like quicksilver and was gone.)  
  
No. No more. Not even if this body died for it.  
  
"Tatsumi!" he called, and walked into the darkness.  
  
It parted in front of him like the bow crest of a wave, washing back to show Tatsumi standing over the body of Muraki. The doctor lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, his yukata in rags, red lines traced across his body with inhuman precision. Tatsumi held Muraki's glasses in his right hand. As he turned to face Tsuzuki, he twisted the wire frames between his fingers and smiled as the glass of the lenses shattered into sparkling black-threaded dust.  
  
"Tsuzuki." The deep voice was as familiar as it had always been. "You shouldn't have run away like that. I'm very annoyed with you."  
  
"I wouldn't run away from Tatsumi," Tsuzuki replied. His words were flat, angry, paid out like a miser's coinage. "Get out of him. Now. I will not tolerate this."  
  
Tatsumi laughed. He reached out with his free hand towards Tsuzuki's cheek -- and then the gesture stopped halfway, as though caught between the frames of a film. He looked at his hand in mild confusion.  
  
"Tatsumi," Tsuzuki said again.  
  
"Ah, no. Too late for that. Too late for him, little black sheep." Something dark like poisoned honey moved under the surface of Tatsumi's voice, glinted behind the pupils of his eyes. "He gave me his will. He can't take it back again. Time to . . ."  
  
**no**  
  
"Don't be stupid," Tatsumi said to the air, tone avuncular and chiding.  
  
**no**   
  
"You've already lost."  
  
**no**  
  
"Stupid fool of a shinigami . . ." The shadows began to mass around Tatsumi again, and his eyes focused on Tsuzuki. "It seems I need to finish this once and for all."  
  
"Tatsumi!" Tsuzuki called desperately. "We know what happened! _It wasn't your fault!_"  
  
---  
  
Sometimes illumination comes upon one gently, rising like the dawning sun, bringing understanding and brightening the dark corners of the mind. _Ah,_ one says. _Of course._ And then the slow smile of comprehension, and the pattern of facts unfolding like a labelled diagram.  
  
Sometimes it hits like a freight train.  
  
_It's not a permanent restructuring of my body,_ Watari realised, as she pulled herself together. _It's temporary and my body's having to constantly maintain the desired configuration as per my mind's subconscious desires. That's why I'm so tired and I'm finding it so draining to use any powers. If I consciously let it lapse, I should be able to draw as usual . . ._  
  
. . . and, her logic relentlessly pointed out, she'd snap back to being male. And goodbye to any hopes of analysing her current condition, or finding out what chemicals got spilled on her -- as if the demon would answer that in any case -- or anything except going back to the long slog of patient experimenting and living in hope.  
  
As if any of that weighed more than a second's worth against the lives of his friends.  
  
Muraki's paper pad and pen lay on the floor several meters to her right, where they'd been thrown during the disruption of Tatsumi's arrival. She crawled towards them, but even as she did so, she could feel her body begin to return to a more familiar pattern, as though the mere conscious recognition of the situation had been enough to trigger the change back.  
  
Watari took the pen in his hand, and began to draw.  
  
---  
  
Hisoka staggered to his feet. It hadn't worked before, and he couldn't be sure that it would work now, and he was shivering in the overly large yukata, and he was cold, but his mouth still worked, and his hands were still able to move. He focused on Tatsumi. "Hei. Sha. Kai. Jin. Retsu. Zai. Sen. ReiBaku!"  
  
The shield shimmered in the air for a moment -- and then Tatsumi ripped through it as though it was tissue paper.  
  
Hisoka staggered back, hands going to his head in pain.  
  
"Don't think I've forgotten about you." More of the demon's tone seemed to bleed into Tatsumi's voice with every passing moment. "You get in my way far too often. Annoying brat." He raised his hand, and shadow shuriken spun through the air towards Hisoka.   
  
Hisoka watched them coming with a strange calm, the instant before impact seeming to stretch into an eternity. They looked sharp enough to slice the air and make it bleed. He probably wouldn't even have time to truly understand the pain before they cut him to pieces.  
  
The pain took him by surprise. It ripped agonisingly through his body, bringing him to his knees with a scream, as his curse marks flared into undiluted agony. Above his head and around his clenched body, the shuriken cut through the walls, leaving jagged gashes behind them.  
  
"The stupid boy doesn't have enough sense to dodge." Muraki's voice, Hisoka knew it in his bones, even through the ripping pain that etched itself along his nerves and through his skin. "But he's my property, and I don't want him damaged."  
  
The demon's laughter rang through the house. "Do you honestly think you can stop me? The little black lamb there won't risk harming me. The boy doesn't have the strength for it. You're damned already."  
  
Muraki smiled, and a strange light glinted in his eyes. "Ah, but I went knowingly, not like the poor fool you're possessing."  
  
"And don't forget me," said Watari.  
  
All heads turned. Watari -- male again, hair blowing in masses of gold around his face -- was holding something which looked like a raygun from a bad thirties serial sketched by a three-year-old, with abnormally intricate circuitry traced down the sides and around the barrel in sigils and pentagrams.  
  
"What's that?" asked Tsuzuki blankly.  
  
"Anti-demon blaster." He pointed the raygun at Tatsumi. "Let's test it."  
  
The blast threw Tatsumi several feet back in a spray of blue sparks, and knocked him to the ground. He lay there for a moment, smelling faintly of charcoal, before beginning to rise to his feet again. Watari blasted him again and again, but the ray was perceptibly paling and weakening. "Do something!" the scientist called over his shoulder. "This won't work for long!"  
  
Muraki seemed to be holding himself upright by pure force of will. Threads of blood marked a scarlet pattern across the pale rags of his yukata. "You. Boy." He pointed a finger at Hisoka. "Reibaku. Now. While I summon the creature."  
  
---  
  
It went against everything that Hisoka knew to trust Muraki, let alone obey him. But he did it anyhow, and the power flowed through him like light, because this time it was working, this time they might actually have a chance, and he was not going to let Tsuzuki die, Tatsumi die, _anyone_ else die if it could be stopped. Not this time.  
  
He wasn't going to be Muraki.  
  
"Hei. Sha. Kai," he began.  
  
---  
  
Tsuzuki pulled half a dozen ofuda from his pocket, and flung them around the edges of the Reibaku which Hisoka was erecting.  
  
Then he folded his hands and concentrated. His eyes focused on the living air which moved through the house and whispered in growing fury. "Bowing before you I present my wish, the twelve gods who protect me! Blade of air, steel of vacuum, bearing fang of silvery-white! Appear before me! Byakko!"  
  
---  
  
Muraki had traced a circular pattern around the pulsing globe of light which held the recovering Tatsumi. He'd marked names in strange dialects at the corners of the interior pentagram, and with a speed that spoke -- to Hisoka's mind -- of far too much practice, had murmured quick invocations.  
  
However, holding the ReiBaku was requiring all Hisoka's concentration. Tatsumi was starting to pound against it from the inside. He had the vague feeling that he was beginning to bleed at the ears. Tatsumi's hands seemed to be ripping through his flesh and into his brain.  
  
Muraki gestured sharply with one bloodstained hand. For a moment Hisoka couldn't think what he meant, and then a connection stitched itself into his thoughts. _Oh. He wants me to drop it._  
  
And he did.  
  
---  
  
Tsuzuki was aware, in the half-time of sorcery and power, that Muraki was creating some sort of rapid magical construct, a form of binding, something tainted with demons and darkness, but it was so different from the tie which he had to his shikigami that he couldn't even perceive it properly. The air rustled and sang to him of steel edges and vital speed, of brightness and deliverance.  
  
The Reibaku vanished, leaving Tatsumi standing at the centre of Muraki's hastily-drawn diagram.  
  
Muraki's voice was ragged but strong, backed with the power of a twisted and shadowed but uncompromising will. He was speaking in Latin -- Tsuzuki could recognise that much, even if he didn't know the language at all -- and the word Saagatanasu rolled through the room. Once. Twice. A third time.  
  
Tatsumi fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, and his muffled cry was stifled at birth as the shadows ebbed and flowed around him, trickling from his mouth and eyes like obscene tears.  
  
_And it's so hard to let go._ Tsuzuki remembered his own possession; the chains of guilt, the certainty that he deserved to be punished, the surety of despair, and in a way, the comfort of knowing that you were damned and it was all settled and that there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. Giving over your soul and letting everything be, because it was no longer your responsibility. Even the pain and despair were sweet, for now you could do nothing else wrong, now you would be punished as you had always known you should be punished, for ever and ever and ever.  
  
Muraki called out the demon's name again, then coughed blood, turning to one side to spit it to the floor.  
  
Tatsumi writhed and choked again, hands scrabbling at his chest. It wasn't clear whether he wanted to tear something out or to keep it inside him.  
  
"Tatsumi." Tsuzuki pitched his voice to carry past the wind. "Listen to me. Listen . . ."  
  
---  
  
Tatsumi curled into the darkness and would not open his eyes. He knew what had been done with his body. With his hands. And finally, with his cooperation. He'd wanted to kill. The fact that he hadn't managed to do so was no saving grace, no forgiveness, no pardon.  
  
He had no right to even try to cast the demon out; it knew the secret parts of his mind, the private shames, the intimate little twists of hatred and lust and pettiness.  
  
It was no more vile than he was.  
  
He had no right to hope for salvation, no reason to ask for mercy.  
  
And yet, in the shadows of his mind, there was a voice that would not let him despair.   
  
Tsuzuki's voice. "Tatsumi. Listen. We need you . . ."  
  
The voice shook with emotion. It was streaked with tears, beginning to fade.  
  
A thought came with it.  
  
If I let myself die, Tsuzuki will weep, and I do not want anyone else to weep over me.  
  
I do not want him to weep over me.  
  
Tatsumi opened his eyes.  
  
---  
  
Hisoka knelt, too tired to stand, and watched the dark feathered hound come exploding out of Tatsumi's body. It raged against the walls of the pentagram, its blows and fangs sliding on the empty air as though it struck solid crystal each time it tried to break its way through. Muraki's voice punctuated its movements in a low dull chant, rising in harsh intervals and unnatural patterns.   
  
He could feel the curse marks glowing faintly, but this was an old pain now, one which he could ignore. Dimly he was conscious that Muraki might be using them to draw strength from him, enough to keep himself standing, but he didn't care any more. As long as this was over. As long as it all stopped. Until they were out of this private hell.  
  
He watched Byakko dive over the boundaries of the pentagram as though they didn't exist -- and presumably they didn't to a shikigami, as they hadn't been raised against such a creature.  
  
He watched the great white tiger tearing the demon to pieces.  
  
This time there was blood. But the wind was fresh, blowing from another world, and it carried a scent of wind, and steel, and stars.  
  
When Byakko was done, the shadows in the room were clean again.  
  
---

Fanfic Page 


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue   
The once-attractive lounge was a shambles of broken furniture, blood, and bandages. Muraki had gracefully donated from his personal stock, and everyone except the housekeeper was wearing _haute couture_ in white gauze to some degree. The only decidedly happy people in the room seemed to be Tsuzuki and Muraki, except when they looked at each other. At those moments, their eyes would meet, and then Tsuzuki would blush and look away, and Muraki's smile would develop a decided edge.  
  
Watari finally broke the silence, startling Hisoka into dropping the end of the bandage which he was knotting around the brooding Tatsumi's wrist. "I think it's time to say our goodbyes."  
  
Muraki nodded. "It's been very pleasant to see you all." He didn't bother to let his voice show open irony; the choice of words said it all. "I hope to meet you again soon. Well -- some of you, at least." He smiled towards Tsuzuki, who crossed his legs nervously.  
  
Hisoka twitched. "But... but..."  
  
The doctor didn't even seem to notice his interjection. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the small service on the table next to him, and cupped it in both hands. His new grey yukata hid most of the cuts and gashes across his body, but his movements were perceptibly rougher than his usual smooth grace. "Please do show yourselves out."  
  
Tsuzuki jerked to his feet. He didn't want to look at Muraki, and he wasn't sure how he was going to face his dreams. He reached for Tatsumi's sleeve, preparing to pull him to the door. And out. Out was the important thing.  
  
Tatsumi resisted the tug, pausing to regard Muraki flatly. "Aren't you going to say anything?"  
  
Muraki curved his lips in what was not a smile. "Why should I need to say anything at all?"  
  
"This changes nothing, you know." The secretary's voice was mild and cold. "You're still a multiple murderer."   
  
Muraki shrugged. The early evening light came slanting in through the broken window, haloing him in dull gold. "I have no delusions."  
  
Tatsumi turned harshly, making for the door, and now he was dragging Tsuzuki along behind him. Hisoka and Watari had already reached the door, and were forced to hurry through to make way for the other two men.  
  
"Secretary, do you read Marlowe?" Muraki called after them. "Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God..."  
  
Tatsumi slammed the front door behind the group, and his face made the others fall silent: not because they did not wish to provoke his anger, but because his eyes held a pain that turned in on itself like a maimed animal.  
  
Finally, Tsuzuki said, "Come on. We need to go, Tatsumi-san."  
  
"Yes. Of course." Tatsumi's voice was normal again, and the normality was so obvious a falsehood that it made Hisoka wince.  
  
"Stop it!" Tsuzuki stepped up close to the other man, and grabbed him by the lapels. The disparity in their height might, under other circumstances, have made the pose look amusing, but there was a passion in Tsuzuki's gesture which dwarfed the situation. "You told me it wasn't my fault. You always used to tell me that. You'd try to help me by reaching out to me. You said before that it wasn't my sin what the demon had done, that you didn't believe I was corrupt. Well, I don't believe you are. But don't look me in the eyes and expect me to believe what you say to me in the future if you aren't prepared to believe it about yourself." He released the taller man. "That's . . ." His voice shook, and he turned away. "That's all. That's all."  
  
The rays of the setting sun moved across the garden path, and slowly, slowly, Tatsumi reached out his hand to Tsuzuki's shoulder. "Baka." He took a breath. The evening air was full of the scent of flowers, even here, on the threshold of death. "Don't cry. There's too much to do."  
  
The four men were silhouetted by the setting sun for a moment, and then vanished in a turn of air.  
  
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